


重臨舊情境 (chances are)

by vandoorne



Category: TVB Actors RPF, 反黑路人甲 | Al Cappuccino (TV) RPF, 踩過界 | Legal Mavericks (TV) RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Getting Back Together, Kissing, M/M, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:13:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27535072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vandoorne/pseuds/vandoorne
Summary: vincent wong has not set foot in hong kong in more than ten years. the last person he expects to run into is theoneex-boyfriend who he still hasn't gotten over — owen cheung.
Relationships: Cheung Chun-long | Owen Cheung/Wong Ho-shun | Vincent Wong
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: WIP OLYMPICS: WINTER 2020/21





	重臨舊情境 (chances are)

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [vincent wong's performance of 到此為止](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8M7LT2dcX6M)

Vincent Wong has not set foot in Hong Kong in more than ten years. It's a strange feeling, he supposes, to be walking down the streets of Central. The buildings and the roads are familiar, as are the taxis with their white and red coats, but these are places that he's more familiar with having seen them on the silver screen, rather than in the flesh. It feels surreal, almost, to be the one actually walking down the streets instead, with his glasses sliding down his nose a little, shirt clinging to his back under the heat of the July sun.

To be perfectly honest, he had no intention of returning to Hong Kong. His entire family had left when he had been in the midst of secondary school, then he had finished sixth form and gone to university in London. Graduated, worked at a design firm, had been headhunted and joined yet another firm, moved around in Europe while his family remained in London. There had been no reason to return to Hong Kong, but here he is after all, caught in the rush hour that is lunch in the Central Business District. His colleagues are adamant that he try this fusion place that's a stone's throw away from their office, and Vincent goes along because he's new and well, why not? He laughs at a colleague's joke and shoves his hands in his pockets and admits that his Cantonese isn't quite up to mark as he hopes it would be, given how it's been years, and she chides him, praising his pronunciation. Vincent ducks his head, accepting the compliment. They round the bend, and someone makes a comment about how the long queue is and how they were glad they thought to call ahead to make a reservation.

'We're getting your table ready,' the service staff assures their party of seven. The queue is snaking, full of office workers in their business suits and sharp dresses, and Vincent turns his attention to the road momentarily, tuning out his colleagues' chatter.

A Harley-Davidson motorcycle rolls to a stop at the traffic light. The motorcyclist is talking to the woman behind him, and she has her arms wrapped around his waist. Then he turns his attention back to the traffic light again and he laughs.

Vincent stares at the man, open-mouthed. The way the man throws his head back as he laughs. That grin. That face under that helmet. No. It cannot be.

Or can it?

'Vincent? Vincent!' Someone is tugging at Vincent's arm, shaking him out of his reverie.

'I'm sorry,' Vincent says, in English. Reflex. He turns to his counterpart, then winces, saying 'Excuse me' in Cantonese.

'We can go in now,' his colleague says. She's all smiles still, tugging him by his arm.

'Okay,' Vincent answers. He walks forward, but his mind is still on the man on the Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

_Could it be?_

Hong Kong is a small island of one thousand, one hundred and four square kilometres and home to around seven and a half million residents. It's small, but not exactly _that_ small, yet somehow, it's possible for Vincent Wong to brush past Owen Cheung once again.

Or maybe not. Maybe it's just Vincent's imagination. A trick of light. Hallucination. There are so many men in Hong Kong and there are bound to be a few who end up looking like Owen, right?

Right. It's been so many years. So many years since Vincent's final year in university. The last and only romantic relationship that he's ever had in his entire life. It's pathetic in a way, isn't it? He's still hung up over it, he still hasn't gotten over it. In his heart of hearts he knows that well, one of the reasons why he has avoided returning to Hong Kong? The last thing he wants is to run into Owen Cheung again.

Then again, what's the worst that could happen? Frankly, it's ridiculous isn't it? It isn't as if they broke up and left on bad terms. It was amicable, to a certain extent. At least, in front of one another, they had hugged and agreed to part. But the moment Vincent had shut the door of his flat, he had heard Owen crying outside. The two of them, back against the same door, tears running down their cheeks, heartbroken, yet unable to reach out to one another.

It wouldn't have worked out. At least, that's what Vincent keeps telling himself. He had a job lined up for him after graduation, he had his future all planned out, in London. He wasn't ever going back. But Owen... Owen had to return to Hong Kong, to continue with university, and then... Then what? Even if they were to continue with a long distance relationship, what would've been the point if they couldn't even come to an agreement on how and where to be with each other eventually?

In any case, Vincent throws himself into work in a bid to forget. He buries himself in his new projects, hangs out with his colleagues and smiles politely and demurs when the older admin ladies seek to introduce him to their nieces and daughters. Right, what's the point of thinking about it? It isn't as if thinking about Owen Cheung on end would manifest him right in front of Vincent. He would know best, given how Owen had been the only one on his mind in the last couple of years. And yet...

Vincent had only planned to leave his office quickly to grab a bite. He hadn't wanted to order delivery because he had needed to get out. Breathe some fresh air, clear his head. As usual, it's always crowded on the Central Elevated Walkway, filled with office workers, tourists and the like. There are the usual photography enthusiasts, the occasional film crew as well. But today, there's someone doing something different. Inching across the overhead bridge, slowly with a camera tripod. Vincent's curiosity is piqued momentarily, and then someone rushes past, knocking into the photographer and the camera.

The tripod goes down, and Vincent reaches out gingerly, grabbing it, holding it steady. The photographer, however, isn't as lucky. He trips, and Vincent just manages to prevent him from falling down. Instead, the photographer ends up with his face buried in Vincent's chest.

Vincent's about to admonish the person who knocked into him, but by the time he looks up, there's no one left. With his left arm, he makes sure the camera is steady again, tripod on the ground fully while the photographer pulls away.

'Sorry about that,' the photographer says.

The photographer hasn't looked up yet, but that voice. Oh god. That voice. Vincent would be able to recognise it _anywhere_. What should he say? How should he greet him? It's been so many years, does he even have the right to call Owen Cheung _Ah Long_ again? Fuck. He takes a deep breath, and says, 'Owen?'

The photographer looks up immediately. It's Owen Cheung alright, with his hair slicked back and combed nearly, parted at the left. His glasses are different now, and he looks sharper. More polished. Less like the skittish colt that had showed up at the gathering organised by the Chinese Students' Society all those years ago. 'Vincent Wong,' he says. There's a flicker of recognition in his eyes, and something else too that Vincent cannot quite pinpoint. Anger? Regret? Unhappiness? Disappointment? 'Fancy meeting you here,' he says, in English. It's still tinged with a bit of a British accent, which Owen had ultimately picked up from his time in London.

'I'm working here now,' Vincent says, switching to Cantonese. 'I mean, I'm working in Central.'

'I shouldn't hold you up then,' Owen says, voice even, still in English. 'Besides, I'm working too.'

'Oh!' Vincent says. By now he has noticed the rest of the film crew who have hurried over to Owen's side, after watching the near accident with the camera. 'Well. Uh. Let's catch up another time?'

Owen looks like he's about to politely decline, but by then Vincent has already pulled out a name card and is writing his phone number at the back, pressing it into Owen's hands.

'Here,' Vincent says, in English this time. Fine, if Owen doesn't want to speak in Cantonese with him, it's okay. 'Don't be a stranger, okay? Call me.'

With that, Vincent's moving away. He doesn't stick around long enough to see what Owen does with his name card.

It's six in the evening and Vincent's still swirling the cold coffee in his cup as he wonders if giving Owen Cheung his number was a mistake.

To be fair, his number hasn't exactly changed in a sense that well, if Owen had wanted to reach him via WhatsApp, he definitely would've been able to all those years back. But Owen had never done so and honestly, why would he have anyway? Besides, what did they even have left to talk about after they broke up?

Vincent finds that he's one of the last to leave the office by the time he actually finishes with the day's work. It hadn't been much really, and his slow pace is nothing short of embarrassing, but Owen weighs down on his mind the entire afternoon that it makes it difficult for Vincent to concentrate.

_Don't be a stranger._

What a fucking joke. To think that Vincent had, up until today, avoided anything to do with Owen resolutely. It's been years, and he still hasn't gotten over anything. He hasn't visited anywhere they used to frequent when they were dating, even though he knew that there was no way he'd run into Owen again in London. Then again, so what if he ran into Owen once more? At the end of the day, Owen Cheung was the one Vincent let get away. The one person who he had loved with all his heart, with every fibre of his being, and then he had let him go just like _that_.

(But in his heart of hearts, Vincent also knows: he's let chances to come back to Hong Kong, be it temporarily or for good, slip through his fingers time and time again because he's afraid — afraid to find that the answer to what he seeks, that being together and making it out alright with Owen wouldn't even be possible even if he hadn't stayed in London because they just weren't meant to be)

It's a waiting game now, he supposes. He's never been one to be impulsive, and yet he had done the irrational thing when he had laid his eyes on Owen Cheung once more. Reason had flown out of the window, and all he could think of then was _can I have you back in my life again?_

And this time, Vincent thinks, if the answer is _no_ , then maybe, he'd be able to learn to accept it and finally move on.

Owen Cheung does not call. Vincent supposes that it's the only rational decision, after all. It's been more than a week now, and he's run the full course of the different stages of anticipation: the light-headed feeling of hope, dizzy excitement, the sinking feeling of disappointment, anger and then finally, despair. It's just his wishful thinking. They broke up and didn't stay in contact. There's nothing much left to talk about now. Why would Owen call anyway? Then again, who even bothers to catch up with an ex-boyfriend from ten billion years ago who you haven't had contact with at all?

Right, come on. Get a goddamn grip, Vincent Wong. Three countries and three jobs later, and he's still in the same position he was in all those years ago — feeling like a final year university student about to take a leap of faith, but not knowing if there's a landing once he has jumped off the cliff. Every time he's tried to be with someone new, he realises that he inadvertently seeks out someone who resembles Owen, either in terms of looks, or personality, or even both. It never ends well, because at the end of the day, Vincent knows that all he's been looking for is someone to fit into the Owen-shaped hole inside his heart that he's never been able to fill up. Even if he finds a boyfriend from Hong Kong in London, it just isn't the same. No, it would never be the same. There wouldn't be anyone who understood him the way Owen did, completely relating to his own fish out of water experience that they navigated together.

Or maybe, it hadn't exactly been just about relating to his own exoerience. It had been the time in life in which they had met, Vincent supposes. He had thought that he had everything all worked out, and yet there had still been flickers of doubt in his mind. Owen's appearance in his life back then had helped him to figure out just what exactly he was going to let go of and what to keep in his last year as a student. In the midst of the transition to being a working adult, he had Owen to ground him. So, what, was their relationship something that had run its course once Vincent had graduated and Owen had finished his yearlong student exchange?

It does occur to Vincent, at some point, that maybe he's just chasing a memory. Maybe he's just chasing the ideal image of Owen that he has built up in his head, reconstructed carefully from the time they had together. If he was really all that hung up about Owen, then nothing could have stopped him from up and leaving for Hong Kong just to be with him. But instead, all he had done was to move from London to Copenhagen to Brussels and back to London again. Anywhere that would take him to where Owen might have been. And now? God, he's such a fucking joke.

Tonight is one of those nights where Vincent feels like drinking of his own accord. No colleagues, no clients. No one to bullshit around with. He's ready to get wasted at a bar in Lan Kwai Fong and go home so drunk he can barely remember his name because on nights like this, forgetting is the name of the game. But alas, that's the very thing he wouldn't accomplish, because seated all alone at a table meant for two is none other than Owen Cheung, with his lower lip sticking out in a bit of a pout as he types hastily on his phone. _Still every bit as adorable as Vincent remembers him to be._

'Fancy meeting you here,' Vincent says, sliding into the seat next to Owen. 'Is this seat taken?'

Owen looks up sharply, and his brow furrows when he realises that it's Vincent. 'Oh. It's you,' he says, lack of enthusiasm evident in his voice. Not English this time, but Cantonese.

Two chance encounters, and now this. Third time's the charm, Vincent supposes. There are a million things that he'd like to say, that he'd like to ask — where should he even begin? To ask if Owen is doing well, doing alright even would be plain ridiculous, wouldn't it? Even after they had broken up, it isn't as if Owen had blocked him on Instagram. Vincent had chosen not to look, not to find out if he had been doing well. Every photo that they had together, every memory they had made together. It's been years, and yet it still stings as if it had happened only yesterday. Then again, who even bothers to keep up with their ex frequently after a break up, especially when said ex is miles and miles away? No, there should be something else to say. Other things that would keep the conversation going, no matter how awkward it may seem between the two of them.

'The other day, when I met you in Central,' Vincent says, with a glass of red wine that he had freshly ordered in hand. 'What were you filming?'

Owen puts down his phone to look at Vincent properly. He blinks, slowly, as if processing whether Vincent is worthy of his time and attention. 'It's called a hyper-lapse,' he says finally. He picks up his own glass of red wine to drink now, and he doesn't bother to offer a toast. 'It works just like a time-lapse, except it moves. So for example, I could be filming a hyper-lapse of this bar, and I'd move the camera in small increments from this table to where the bartender is to get the entire bar into the video, as well as its movements over time.'

'Sounds like it's a very time consuming effort. The person who knocked into you really disrupted your schedule, hmm?' Vincent muses, sipping at his red wine.

'You don't say,' Owen huffs. 'We'd been in the middle of the entire shot, and then we had to redo it all over again.'

'i see,' Vincent says, nodding slowly.

'Yeah,' Owen sighs, picking up his own glass of red wine. 'Anyway. Thanks for saving the camera.' He holds out his glass.

'No worries,' Vincent answers, clinking his glass with Owen's. It's an olive branch of sorts, Vincent supposes, and he'll take it. Then again, what the hell is he even thinking anyway? It isn't as if they fought and never made up and are now stuck together at an awkward festival, right? Vincent downs his glass of red wine, and it doesn't go down as smoothly as it did before. Perhaps it's the memories rushing back, or maybe it's the alcohol. Either way, it burns. He sets down his empty glass, looking at Owen, who doesn't meet his gaze. 'Have you been a photographer ever since you graduated?' he asks.

Owen's head whips up sharply to meet Vincent's gaze. His eyes widen, then there's the glazed look of realisation. His shoulders slump a little, and he laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound.

Fuck. Vincent's gone and fucked it all up.

'No,' Owen answers finally. His gaze hardens, and his eyes are cold. 'I worked in an office after graduation. Did the 9 to 5 job like I was expected to with my degree, then figured that it wouldn't be what I could live with for the rest of my life. Started out as a freelancer while I was still working, then quit and got my own studio afterwards and everything.' He exhales shakily, setting his glass down. 'You really...' he starts, then stops.

'Ah Long, I-'

' _Don't call me that_ ,' Owen says sharply, cutting Vincent off. 'You. I. we're not...'

Vincent stares at Owen, mouth dry. 'I'm sorry,' he says. It doesn't cut it. The damage has been done. His question had been tantamount to admitting that after their break up, he couldn't even be bothered to keep up with Owen any more. He hadn't kept in touch to begin with, and this clearly just showed that it had been a clean break for him. Nothing left to do with Owen, no more lingering feelings, when the truth couldn't be any further. But what is he supposed to say? What could he have said anyway? _I couldn't bear to look at anything to do with you for years after we broke up because each time I wanted to, all I could remember was that I don't have you and I can't have you back any more?_

'Owen?'

It's a female voice. Vincent looks up, and it's the woman who was with Owen on the motorcycle that very first time he had seen him again.

'Let's go,' Owen says, getting up to leave. He takes the woman by her arm, leading her away from their table.

'Who was that?' she asks.

'No one,' Owen replies, without looking back.

Oh, _fuck_.

Vincent Wong hasn't logged into the Instagram account he had used during his university days in years. He messes up the password on the first two attempts, but gets it right on the third try, and then he's in.

Vincent's notifications are filled with suggestions of who to follow and whatnot, which he elects to ignore. He goes straight to his profile, and taps on _following_. It's a long list from his university days, but sure enough, he manages to find Owen's account on it. He taps on it, and it loads, much to his surprise.

To be perfectly honest, Vincent doesn't know what exactly he had been expecting. For Owen to block his account? The last photo that Vincent had uploaded had been photos from his commencement ceremony, all those years ago, with friends, with family. _Without Owen_. Then he had left the account for good, creating a new one only after he had started working, mostly just to have some semblance of a social media presence. He scrolls through Owen's feed, careful not to accidentally tap on anything to give Owen any indication that _yes, after all these years, he's finally stalking him on Instagram_. Owen's posts are varied — from photos he has taken to selfies, and most are accompanied by long captions with his thoughts. Vincent had taken notice of his following count (in the range of a few thousands, an influencer, perhaps?), but Owen has a separate account for his photography which has a following count of more than hundreds of thousands. It's staggering, but Vincent can see why. Owen's photos are beautiful, and each and every one conveys its own story. If he had thought that the photos Owen had taken during their trip to Paris on a disposable camera were amazing, this? All this? Owen truly has grown as a photographer, and it shows.

Right. Owen's Instagram feed. The woman Vincent had seen in the bar features in the first photo of Owen's feed, and Vincent isn't surprised to learn that well, she is none other than Owen's girlfriend. She appears in many photos over the years, sometimes not appearing for a couple of months, but eventually showing up again. Vincent scrolls down even more, wondering if the old photos that they had taken together are still up on Owen's feed. Would Owen have deleted them? Only one way to find out.

It takes more than an hour for Vincent to finally arrive at his answer. The photos are still there, from back when they were dating. The captions are still intact, still as cryptic as ever, song lyrics from the songs they used to sing together, with Owen on the guitar.

How could Vincent ever forget? He closes his eyes and he can still hear Owen's voice, the sound of his guitar, strumming the chords. He goes back to his own feed, and that's when it strikes him. There are _hundreds of notifications_ for his direct messages.

Vincent frowns. Who would message him anyway? Spam accounts? Bots? He opens his inbox, and he swallows hard.

It's none other than _Owen Cheung_.

Owen's last message on Instagram to him dates back to... Vincent frowns, trying to convert the weeks into months into years. Up until a few months ago, Owen had still been sending him messages. Some of them are riddled with typos and incoherency in English. Others are in Cantonese, with words that are wrong. Vincent swallows hard, settling into his bed, scrolling all the way up to read from the start.

In the beginning, Owen's messages had been... It had been a variation of _I miss you_ or _I want you back_ or _why did we have to break up_. Then at some point, it seems that Owen had come to the realisation that no, Vincent would likely never look at his messages ever, and he had started to use it as a diary of sorts.

Vincent reads the messages from Owen about graduation, wondering what he should do. Whether he should stay in Hong Kong, or leave for somewhere else. There's a snide message in there about Vincent working in London, and Vincent can almost hear the bitterness in Owen's voice as he reads it. Then there's how Owen had decided that he's going to work an office job after all, since he had fought so hard for his internship, it would've been foolish not to take up the offer when it came. And Owen asks, _Would you congratulate me? Or would you chide me for taking this up and not doing what I wanted to do in the beginning? All I want is to hear you tell me that things will be fine, that I'll work it out eventually and that you'd been here to hold me as I make it through. But I'm here in Hong Kong alone, while god only knows where you are in Europe, and I can't turn back time to be with you again._

The tears well up as Vincent continues to read. There are messages from Owen lamenting about the state of his job, about it sucking the soul out of him. There are messages from Owen, clearly drunk, wondering where Vincent is, wondering if he'll ever come home. And it hurts because fuck, what does home even mean then? Once upon a time, back when he had been with Owen, with Owen lying in his arms in Vincent's flat in London, Owen had told him that home wasn't a place, but a feeling. Never mind that he'd been away from Hong Kong for a while, and he had spent too much time in London and hadn't known where exactly he fit in any more. As long as he had Owen by his side, in his arms, and that made him feel like he was comfortable and safe and right where he should be? That was home, according to Owen. And Vincent had laughed, hugging him closer, kissing Owen's neck, telling him that he'd remember that feeling forever. God, how many years has it been? Vincent still remembers the moment clearly, when he closes his eyes he can still feel the heat from Owen's body, Owen leaning back in his arms against his chest. It's ridiculous, isn't it? All these years later, after trying so hard to forget and let go, and he's back at square one again.

There are messages from Owen telling him that he has a girlfriend now. _Did you know? You were my first boyfriend. I don't think I'll ever date another man ever again. You've ruined me. But you'll never know that, right? Maybe I'm just a footnote in your dating history. I bet you're with someone else right now, aren't you? How could you not be? How could anyone not fall for you?_

Vincent is shaking as he reads because fuck. Fuck. In all those years after Owen, he had tried so fucking hard to move on. To be with someone else, but each time he had stopped short of commitment because he had realised that no, he wasn't looking to move on. All he had been looking for had been _someone just like Owen_. Fucking pathetic. And Owen... God, Owen had been Vincent's first serious relationship. Someone who he had seen as a person to, potentially, be together with in the long term. Someone who he had thought about the possibility of spending the rest of his life with. And then it all went to hell.

_Last night I got drunk, and I thought of going to London. Looked at airfare, thought of booking tickets. Getting a job there, starting a life there. And telling you that I could give everything up in Hong Kong and uproot myself just to be with you. Such a foolish thought, right? I can hear you laughing at me, telling me I have a girlfriend now and that you've already moved on. I can hear you telling me that I'm supposed to be a responsible adult now who cannot feed myself on dreams. Every now and then, you cross my mind. I see someone tall and reedy in the crowd, with that undercut you like so much, and like a fucking joke I get my hopes thinking it might be you. Why can't I let go? Why can't I forget?_

The tears fall all over the screen of Vincent's phone, sliding down the screen protector. It's getting harder to breathe now, Vincent can feel that it's so bad that his ears are starting to become blocked too. If he had seen all these messages from Owen back then, what would he have done? Would he have come back to Hong Kong, leaving his career behind to chase him again in a place where marriage between two men is still illegal? Then again staying in Europe hadn't exactly proved to be helpful, had it?

_I broke up with my girlfriend again. It's the third time we've been on and off. She asked me if I had someone else. Can't tell her I might still be chasing a fucking memory, right?_

Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god.

 _y thr fuck is it thwt my thougys krep comibf back to u_ and there's an attached blurred shot of god knows what, a hand? A bottle of beer?

There's a photo of the night sky in Finland, of the aurora borealis. A photo of the wreckage of the plane crash in Sólheimasandur in Iceland. A photo of the fjords in Norway. They were supposed to see all these together, they had made a promise to go to the Nordic countries together, and yet in the end, Owen had gone to see it alone, had taken the photos without him. _I'm here in Finland with my girlfriend. I saw the northern lights. I took the photos. I went to a whole bunch of places we were supposed to go to together, to make the memories we were supposed to make together with her instead so I could forget about us and let things go. But it's so fucking stupid, is it? It was so beautiful, and when I turned to tell her about it I nearly said your goddamn name instead. For a moment, I had been expecting to see you by my side instead. What the fuck is wrong with me?_

There are more messages. Photos. Vincent is sobbing by now, and he struggles to breathe, but he ends up choking instead because fuck, as much as he tries to clear his nose, it's still blocked and his breath comes in gasps. Fuck. Oh god. Oh fuck.

There, right at the end, is Owen's final message to him.

_I won't be sending you any more messages. I have to move on. It's been so many years, right? I've held on to this for so long. You've kept all my secrets for me. Thank you. Goodbye._

Vincent Wong wakes up with a splitting headache. He clutches at his head as he gets up, massaging his temples, and his phone falls to the floor with a thud. Sunlight streams in through the blinds, and he feels worse for wear.

In the past, sleeping would've helped him feel better. Or at least, a night's rest would help put some distance between him and the events of the night before. Yet as he stumbles to the toilet and remembers the countless messages that he had read from Owen, all he's left with is a heavy heart. He braces himself against the bathroom sink, not daring to look at his face in the mirror. All these years that he had spent running away, not daring to come back. Not daring to try to chase Owen again. Trying to deceive himself into thinking that yes, he had forgotten all about Owen, that he had been ready to let go. He had spent so much time trying to fool himself into thinking that it was all okay, he could go on living like this. Yet in the end... Fuck. _Fuck_. What the hell had it all been for? Was it pride? The unbearable feeling of responsibility as the oldest son to carry on the family name? The fear of coming out of the closet? Uprooting himself once again to go back to Hong Kong after London? What the hell had it all been for, all those years of staying away, when Owen had been... Oh god. Oh fuck. Oh god.

If only Vincent had known. But then again, what's the point of knowing? Just what the hell would he have done? Given up on the job offer he had fought so hard to win and return to Hong Kong empty handed? Left the possibility of promotion and a pay raise to return to Hong Kong in the midst of financial uncertainty?

Vincent turns on the tap, cupping his hands underneath the running water. He brings the water to his face, washing up, and he looks up finally, staring straight at his reflection. His eyes are puffy, and his dark eye circles are worse for wear. There are crow's feet at the corner of his eyes and faint lines of wrinkles on his forehead. So much time has passed, and he's no longer the same bright-eyed university student that he was so many years ago.

And, well. There's Owen too. It all makes sense, Vincent supposes. From Owen's reaction to his reappearance to how Owen had reacted to his questions down to how Owen had brushed him off as a nobody to his girlfriend. It's too late for him to play this card, to tell Owen he still wants him in his life. He's years too late; he's missed the boat.

It's time to move on, even if his feet seem to be rooted to the spot.

In the next few weeks, Vincent buries himself in work. He obliges the admin ladies who wish to introduce him to their daughters and nieces, and is perfectly polite and civil in his interactions with them. He goes along with the blind date that the well-meaning cleaning lady in his office sets him up on with her granddaughter, and he walks her to the MTR station and sees her off before going to Lan Kwai Fong to get dead drunk.

Sometimes, Vincent ends up chatting someone up at a bar. Man, woman, whoever. It's always someone shorter than him, clean cut, easy on the eyes with an adorable smile and dimples. Always dimples. He flirts outrageously if he's drunk enough, and many a time he comes close, so close to bringing them home.

He never goes through with it. Sometimes it comes to him when he's kissing them, and he realises that no, something is wrong. The reaction is wrong, the hand on his face feels wrong, the lips beneath his own feels wrong. Sometimes it comes to him when he gets out of the bar with them, and in the cool night air, under the streetlights, he turns, expecting to see someone else's face, then backing away when he realises that no, this is all wrong.

Is that it, then? Is he never going to be able to forget?

The days blur into one another. September brings more rain, and on a particularly rainy evening, Vincent wonders momentarily if he had been transported back into London again, with its perpetually damp weather and gloomy skies.

There should be something for Vincent to look forward to, he supposes. He signs up for a gym membership and starts to work out again. He signs up for a coffee-making workshop and learns how to make latte art, and pushes the memory of Owen being disgusted at how he doesn't drink coffee with sugar out of his mind.

He can do this. He can move on. He can walk on ahead. He has spent the last few years running around in circles, avoiding things. This time he has a direction. This time he's really going through with things. It all ends here.

By November, Vincent's considering moving back to London when his current stint is over. Going back to Europe, back to familiar ground. He had taken the offer to work in Hong Kong thinking that he was over things, that he was ready to return once more, even if it was just to see how the landscape has changed. His immediate family members are all in London anyway, and at his parents' behest, he had visited some of his aunts and uncles earlier on. There's no real reason to remain, he supposes, and he wonders if taking up the posting had been a mistake.

To be fair, it's a change of pace. Things are more hectic here, the work ethic in general has stark differences with what he had experienced before and communication works differently. But at the very least, it's refreshing to see that at last, he isn't the only Asian in the office. And of course, there's also how he's finally starting to lose his foreign accent on his Cantonese. Right, he can't stay stagnant and remain only at the same place for an extended period of time, right? For there to be growth, there must be movement, and here he rapidly expands his portfolio.

These days, when Vincent returns to his flat, he falls asleep quickly. It's exhaustion, mostly. There is simply no time to think about anything beyond work. no space in between waking and dreaming to wonder in the darkness of his room, all alone, that maybe things shouldn't be this way, and that there should be someone else beside him instead.

Vincent wakes up with a start when his phone rings at two in the morning. He flings an arm out for his phone, then squints at the screen, trying to discern the phone number. Had he forgotten about an overseas conference call? He usually sets an alarm for those. Or is it an emergency meeting, or something happening at home in London? His mind races, thinking of the possibilities.

Wait, no. It's not an overseas call. The number is a local Hong Kong number. Who could it be at this time of the night? He doesn't recognise the number. Part of him is tempted to hang up, it's probably a spam call, right? But another part of him tells him that since he's awake already, why not? Just take the call. If it's a spam call, he can just hang up anyway. He swallows hard, hesitating momentarily, then swipes to answer the call.

' _Ho Shuuuuuuuun_ ,' says the voice on the line. 'Where are you, _Wooooooooong Hooooooo Shuuuuuuun_? I really miss youuuuuu... Why aren't you here?'

That voice. Oh god. Fuck.

 _Owen Cheung_.

Owen Cheung is drunk.

It had been an uphill task coaxing Owen's exact location out of him, and Vincent had been worried that something bad might happen in between the time he took to get there. As it turns out, Owen is just, well, drunk beyond belief.

Owen's curled up in a corner at a park in Central, and to be honest, Vincent isn't surprised if he had decided to crash there instead of going home.

'Chun Long,' Vincent says, shaking Owen lightly, opting not to use Owen's English name. He speaks in Cantonese, saying, 'Wake up. You're drunk. Let's get you home.'

'Am not going back,' Owen mumbles, still curled up, not looking at Vincent.

The night air is cool, with a gentle breeze, and Vincent decides that well, fuck it. He squats down next to Owen, trying to pull him away from the corner. 'Come on. Don't fall asleep here.'

'Don't want to.' Vincent can hear the pout in Owen's voice, the stubborn refusal to move, and he chuckles in spite of himself. It's been so many years, but it's almost as if nothing has changed.

'Okay,' Vincent says, settling down on the ground then. 'Shall I stay here with you?'

'Who are you?' Owen asks, speech slurred, not looking up.

Vincent hesitates. 'Ho Shun,' he says, at last.

'Ho Shun?' Owen asks, disbelief evident in his voice. He turns, lifting his face from his arms. Has he been crying? His eyes are red, and his dark eye circles are painfully clear. Even under the dim lighting of the moon and the lights in the park, Vincent can see that Owen's cheeks are entirely flushed. So are his ears, and it spreads down to his neck, disappearing down the neckline of his black t-shirt. 'Don't lie to me,' he says, voice plaintive.

'I'm not lying,' Vincent answers. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He reaches to cup Owen's cheeks, so that Owen can look straight at him. 'Look at me. See? It's me. Ho Shun.'

Owen laughs, closing his eyes. 'I must be dreaming. How can you be here?' He opens his eyes again, narrowing them. 'You're not _Hoooooo Shuuuuun_. He's in London,' he says, breaking free of Vincent's grasp, waving a finger in Vincent's face. 'You can't. Deceeeeeeeeeive me. I'm not going with youuuuuuuu.'

' _Ah Long_ ,' Vincent says, at last. 'It's really me. I'm not in London. I'm in front of you.' His voice cracks in his last few words.

'Don't,' Owen says, hiccupping. 'Don't call me _Ah Long_. Why are you here, Ho Shun? After so many years?' He looks up at Vincent, and this time his eyes are shining. 'You said you'd never. Neeeeeever. Come back.'

'I'm here now,' Vincent says, not trusting himself to say anything else. What can he say? He had been determined not to give up his chances in London then. Since his family had made the decision to uproot themselves from Hong Kong, and he had no choice but to start life anew in the middle of secondary school, then he would not give himself the option of going back. and with that he had decided that no, long distance relationships would have no meaning if eventually, they were never going to be able to find a way to be together because Owen wasn't going to leave Hong Kong anyway? Yet now here he is, in the middle of the night, next to Owen Cheung, in _Hong Kong_. The sheer irony.

'I'm dreaming,' Owen concludes. The tears slide down his cheeks now, and he hiccups again.

'You said you missed me,' Vincent says, voice catching in his throat. 'Why didn't you ever call?'

'No point,' Owen chokes out. 'Because. You don't. You don't miss me.'

 _I missed you all the time. I avoided all those places we used to go to in London because even going past them made me think of you._ But Vincent doesn't say those words, because what can he say in the face of all this? It sounds like nothing more than a pathetic attempt to console him, like when you say _I miss you too_ automatically to someone in reply and you're not even sure if you mean it. So he settles for saying 'You could've called' instead. It's unfair, and he knows it. _He_ could've called Owen instead. But all he had done was to run away instead of trying to face his own feelings.

'I told youuuuuuu. No point.' Owen's crying harder now, and he gasps, sucking in a deep breath of air. 'Ho Shuuuuuun. I don't want. Your voooooooice. When I'm sad I want. I want youuuuuu. By my side. Holding me. Do you understaaaaaaaaaaand?'

'I do,' Vincent answers, voice barely a whisper. The tears well up now, and he pulls Owen in, holding him in an embrace. 'I do.'

'Ho Shuuuuun,' Owen manages, burying his face in Vincent's chest. He groans, then proceeds to throw up all over Vincent.

There's the sound of footsteps. Owen's awake.

Vincent's in the kitchen still, finishing up with the macaroni. It's standard breakfast fare for when he misses Hong Kong too much, or for hangovers, which he knows Owen is nursing at the moment. Fried ham, along with fried eggs with a runny yolk on top of macaroni in chicken broth, and then a mug of milk tea to wash all of it down.

'I'm sorry,' Owen says. Vincent doesn't have to look up from what he's doing to know that he's entered the dining area. 'Last night I was really drunk and I...'

Vincent switches off the induction cooker, turning around to face Owen. 'I know,' he says.

Owen stares at him, jaw slack. 'You...'

'Chun Long,' Vincent says, smile taut. 'There's a spare toothbrush in the bathroom. Maybe you'd like to wash up first. It's the first door on the right.'

'Your jacket,' Owen says, holding out Vincent's hoodie. He's shirtless now, clad only in his jeans, and Vincent averts his eyes.

'You can keep it on,' Vincent says. 'Your shirt is still in the washing machine.'

'Right,' Owen says. He looks like he's still about to return the hoodie, then thinks better of it and puts it on.

'Have a bite,' Vincent says, gesturing to the bowl of macaroni he had prepared for Owen. 'You must be hungry.' He slides into his seat, hoping that Owen would follow suit.

Owen does. He looks at the food, then up at Vincent again. 'Last night...' he starts, licking his lips.

'You called me,' Vincent says. 'You sounded like you were drunk. I was worried about you, so I came over to get you.'

'You were worried about me,' Owen echoes.

Vincent winces.

'Did we...' Owen trails off, not meeting Vincent's gaze.

'You threw up on me,' Vincent says.

'I'm sorry.' Owen looks at the food in front of him, then moves to get up. 'I should be going-'

'Your shirt,' Vincent says. 'I just got up a while ago and put it down to wash.'

'Right,' Owen says, sitting down again. He purses his lips, thinking of what to say.

Vincent takes a deep breath. It's been months since their chance encounter at the bar in Lan Kwai Fong, and he has been trying to forget, trying to move on, but last night? Throughout the journey home, all he could do had been to replay Owen's words in his mind, over and over. _Where are you, Wong Ho Shun? I really miss you. Why aren't you here?_ So what if... Oh god. What if? It's now or never then, is it? There's only once chance for him to find out.

'I saw your Instagram messages.'

'Please forget whatever I said last night.'

The words come out at the same time.

'Ahh,' Vincent says.

Owen lets out a shaky exhale, then he finally looks up at Vincent. 'I know. I wanted to unsend my messages, then I saw that you had seen them all.'

'You said a lot of things last night,' Vincent says, choosing his words carefully.

'I really did, didn't I?' Owen says. He laughs, but there is no mirth in the sound. 'I didn't think you would really come for me.'

'I didn't think you'd call,' Vincent says, voice soft. 'Did something happen?'

Owen closes his eyes and sighs, leaning back in his chair. 'I broke up with my girlfriend.'

Vincent bites down on the inside of his cheek, stopping himself from putting his mouth on autopilot and saying _I'm sorry_. Does he even mean it anyway? So there's only one answer, which is to not say anything.

'To be more exact, she broke up with me. Said my heart wasn't in it anyway, and that I should go.' Owen opens his eyes, looking at Vincent. His eyes are shining now, and Vincent swallows hard. 'It's been so many years. Why did you come back into my life only now? How is it that you walk in here as if it's nothing, while I... I...' Owen's voice falters as the tears start to fall from his eyes. 'I tried so hard to forget you. I tried so hard to move on. And when I finally think I've gone and done it, here you...'

'Chun Long,' Vincent says, voice hoarse. What can he say in the face of all this? He has thought about this a million times, dreamt up this scenario over and over. Running into Owen again, being able to do over. To tell Owen _I'm sorry, I fucked up, please let me be with you again_. But after all this, after all that he hasn't said and hasn't done. Just...

There's the hiss of something boiling, and Vincent remembers the tea that he had set down earlier on the induction cooker. Right. Milk tea. He scrambles to his feet, rushing to turn it off before the tea overflows, electing to ignore Owen's incredulous look as he heads for the kitchen in favour of continuing with their conversation. Vincent's hands are shaking as he strains the tea, pouring it into the mugs he had prepared already, with the right amount of evaporated and condensed milk. When he's done, he sets the pot in the kitchen sink, carrying the two mugs out.

'Here,' Vincent says, handing a mug to Owen.

Owen stares at the mug. Then, as if needing superhuman effort, he looks up at Vincent and takes the mug from him. 'After all this time,' he says. It's a Mickey Mouse mug, from Paris Disneyland. There's a familiar chip in the handle, but other than that, the mug looks as good as brand new. In Vincent's hand is a Minnie Mouse mug, the companion to the one in Owen's hand. In comparison, the mug looks a little worse for wear, where the paint has faded and chipped in areas.

Years ago, during their winter break, the two of them had gone on vacation to Paris. Owen had saved up enough for only one trip to another European country, and Vincent had savings from his internship and from doing a bunch of other things here and there. They had decided to take a train there, and they had done all the touristy things your average couple would. Go on a boat down the river seine, visit the Eiffel tower, take photos at Pont de Bir-Hakeim as if they had starred in _Inception_. Then they had gone to Disneyland together, and Vincent had said no to matching Mickey and Minnie ears, but Owen had picked out matching mugs for them to use, saying he would be Mickey, and Vincent would be Minnie. Vincent had laughed, and the mugs had gone back with them to Vincent's flat in London. The years had passed, and Vincent had moved, from country to country. The mugs had always gone with him, and it would sit on the kitchen rack by the sink, the Mickey mug untouched, while he had always used the Minnie mug.

Vincent lets out a shaky laugh. 'It sounds stupid and cheesy and ridiculous even but. The Mickey mug has always been with me, waiting for its original owner to come back.'

Owen is shaking now as he sets his mug down on the table. 'Why didn't you say anything?' he chokes out.

Vincent forces a smile, trying to fight back the tears. 'I wasn't coming back to Hong Kong. It didn't figure in my plans at all to return, especially after my father uprooted all of us to start anew in London. He said he wanted to give all of us a better life. What sort of son would I be if I went in the face of all that and headed straight back for Hong Kong after university?' he exhales shakily. 'I struggled all those years to fit in, to get used to things, and I told myself I wasn't going back ever again. I had no plans to return, but you, you had a future ahead of you in Hong Kong, right? I would've been a selfish bastard if I tried to cling on to you, thousands of miles away, without working towards the goal of being physically together again someday, right?'

'A self-sacrificial bastard,' Owen retorts.

'I know,' Vincent answers, voice cracking this time. 'I was so caught up in my own feelings that by the time I realised that I had failed to consider yours, the only option I thought I had left was to run away and try to disappear completely. But here I am, and I held on to our mugs for so long and. I'm a fool, aren't I? I'm sorry.'

There's the soft sound of water splashing. Owen gasps for breath, his tears falling into the soup in front of him. 'You're an idiot, Wong Ho Shun,' Owen says.

'I know,' Vincent answers, willing his tears to stop. 'And I know this comes far too late, and we're probably not who we used to be any more but just. I just.' He takes a deep, shuddering breath before he continues, 'I'm sorry. I fucked up. I don't know how everything is going to turn out, and I know this is an unreasonable request, but please. I beg of you.' Vincent reaches for Owen's hand, and covers it with his own. 'Chun Long, would you give me the chance to make things right?'

Owen looks up at Vincent, lower lip quivering. It's that same expression, from all those years back, on that night they broke up. Vincent hadn't gotten what it meant back then, but he does now. _How could you bear to leave me. I don't want to see you go._ He blinks, and fresh tears fall. 

' _Ah Long_ ,' Vincent murmurs. This time, he gets up, gathering Owen in his arms as Owen sobs into the fabric of his shirt.

'Okay,' Owen says eventually, pulling away. He looks up at Vincent, and his eyes are red from crying. 'Let's try again.'

The first date that Vincent goes on with Owen in Hong Kong is to Disneyland. It's only fitting, he supposes. This time, Vincent's the one who gets the matching ears for the both of them, and he hands the Mickey ears to Owen before putting the Minnie ones on himself.

'The ears suit you, Mr Wong,' Owen says, looking at Vincent, eyes appraising.

'You're looking good too, Mr Cheung,' Vincent replies, grinning. He leans in, adjusting the Mickey ears on Owen's head so that they are properly aligned.

'I always look good,' Owen replies, scrunching up his nose, but he sounds undeniably pleased. His cheeks are pink, and his ears are red as he falls into step next to Vincent. 'So. Where are we headed first?'

It's probably not the best idea to go for an attraction like Hyperspace Mountain when heights isn't something you're terribly fond of, but at the same time, Vincent supposes that a roller coaster ride in Disneyland isn't something to be afraid of, right?

As it turns out, well, it really isn't much. It's a fast ride with a lot of flashing lights in darkness and there's the mild disconnect that Vincent has of _Star Wars_ being in Cantonese instead of English, and there are plenty of twists and turns. The drops, however, can hardly be considered drops to fear. But Owen does reach for his hand, squeezing lightly as the climb begins, and Vincent cannot help but feel pleased.

They end up at a place at Yau Ma Tei for dinner near the MTR station. Or maybe it's supper, Vincent isn't really sure. Owen looks visibly appalled when Vincent reveals that no, he actually hasn't had wonton noodles at all despite being in Hong Kong for a couple of months now, and Vincent is actually surprised when he bites into a wonton and finds that there's more than one prawn inside it.

Owen grins at Vincent, and Vincent chuckles. It's that look that he knows all too well, the feeling of self-satisfaction of knowing that someone enjoys something that he likes too. Some things really never do change, he supposes, just like how Owen blushes, using tissue to dab at the curry sauce at the corners of his lips from eating curry fish balls.

Their knees knock against one another's underneath the table that they're sharing with a family of three. Vincent hasn't been to anywhere like this in forever, hasn't had to share a table with strangers in such a long time, with the smell of soy sauce and curry fish balls and cheong fun in the air and the wind from the air-conditioning blowing in his face.

'Something on your mind?' Owen asks, reaching for his iced lemon tea.

'Just thinking,' Vincent replies. 'I used to have dinner at places like this after secondary school, with my brother.'

'It's been a while, hasn't it?'

Vincent shifts, moving closer to Owen so that his leg is flush against Owen's and he nods. It's a comfortable heat. 'It has,' he says.

_Let's get annual passes for Disneyland_ , Owen texts later on.

Vincent smiles, looking at the message fondly. He now has a pair of Minnie Mouse ears, sitting on his desk. Finally, after all these years.

 _Okay_ , Vincent replies.

At night, in bed, Vincent remembers. The heat from Owen's palm on his hand, how Owen had leaned in close, shoulder knocking into his chest as he took a bite from Vincent's Stitch popsicle, how Owen's leg had felt pressed against his own, underneath the table, radiating heat.

Vincent hasn't had anything like this in a long while. To begin with, he isn't too fond of physical contact with others, but with Owen... He's missed this, he supposes. Having someone in his life who he's comfortable with enough to be close to, to touch and be touched. Before they had parted for the night, it hadn't been Owen who had initiated the hug, but _Vincent_. The last time he had initiated any form of physical contact like this had been, what, when he had been in Heathrow, bidding his family goodbye.

In the darkness, Vincent tosses and turns. The air-conditioning feels like it isn't cool enough, and his blanket is too warm.

'We're going on a motorcycle ride,' Vincent says. It's their second date, and Owen shows up on a Harley-Davidson bike, that very same one that Vincent had seen him on the first time they had crossed paths in Hong Kong.

'Yeah,' Owen says. He reaches up, putting the helmet on for Vincent. 'Do you trust me?'

'Of course,' Vincent answers, climbing on behind Owen afterwards. 'But that's not the point.'

'Then what is?' Owen asks. 'Is this your first time?'

Vincent snorts. Of all things Owen chooses to say, this is it. From the very first time they had met.

Vincent can still remember how they had met in London. He wasn't one to attend gatherings organised by the Chinese Students' Society very often in university, although he had known that well, he probably should have. It's a way of networking, even if he's unlikely to return to Hong Kong, it's still a useful way of making connections. And if anything, connections do help the world to continue turning so, well. It had been the first semester of Vincent's final year in university, and he had decided that fine, he'd deign to attend for once. There had been someone that he hadn't seen before, but then again, there were many people Vincent hadn't seen before, given how he hadn't attended a single gathering in the previous academic year. He had really missed out on quite a bit, although it hadn't exactly been something he had minded much about. He had been scanning the crowd for a familiar face, not wanting to be alone, when someone had bumped into him.

'Sorry,' the man had said, ducking his head, looking embarrassed. He had a mop of black hair, fringe ending just above his eyebrows, and a pair of black square-rimmed glasses, and given his dressing, Vincent had been ready to pinpoint his exact area of study in university.

Vincent had looked at him, curious. The accent had sounded familiar, and he had frowned, asking 'Are you from Hong Kong?' in Cantonese too, for good measure.

'How did you know?' the man had replied in Cantonese, eyes widening under his glasses.

There and then Vincent had thought that _Wow, he has nice eyes. Cute. Earnest._ What.

'Thought so,' Vincent had replied, smiling, not giving any of his thoughts away. 'I'm Vincent, but you can call me Ho Shun, either works fine.'

'Ho Shun,' the man had repeated, and Vincent had swallowed hard. His name had sounded nice on the man's tongue, and it had been a disconcerting sort of feeling. The man had smiled, saying 'I'm Owen, but just call me Chun Long. Is this your first time?'

'What?'

'I mean, your first time at something like this,' Owen had clarified, waving a hand about. His cheeks had been more than just a little flushed, embarrassed at what he had just said. _How cute_.

'I'm in my final year here,' Vincent had said. 'I'd like to think I've gotten used to networking like this, but it never gets easier, does it?' He had tried to keep his tone light. Kind. Not cynical and exhausted. Then he had turned to look at Owen, who had been looking sheepishly at him.

'Ah,' Owen had answered, unable to meet Vincent's gaze. 'I'm on a yearlong exchange here actually. I was supposed to meet my friends here, but somehow we got separated and...'

'Do you want me to help you look for them?'

'What if I said I'd rather hang out with you?' Owen had looked mortified as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

Cute, and forward too. Oh no. Vincent had grinned, asking 'Why not?'

'It's my first time on a motorcycle, yes,' Vincent says.

'Hold on to me tightly then,' Owen says, grinning.

'This time, when I hold on to you, I won't be letting go,' Vincent says, wrapping his arms around Owen's waist.

Owen smiles. 'Okay,' he says, patting Vincent's hand, and then they're off.

At a traffic light, Vincent leans against Owen's back, saying, 'I just thought of something.'

'Oh?' Owen asks.

'Think you might have an inkling of what it is,' Vincent says. He hums the opening bars from _A Moment of Romance_ , and Owen laughs. 'Wah Dee.'

'Siu Tsin,' Owen answers, voice serious. 'Don't let go then,' he says.

'I won't.'

Vincent still remembers their shared love for classic Hong Kong films. It had been one of the things that had brought them together, so he had figured that well, now that they've found themselves in such a scenario? Why not act out one of the most famous scenes starring Andy Lau and Jacklyn Wu, riding a motorcycle together?

'I didn't think I'd meet someone into classic Hong Kong films this far out in London,' Owen had said, leaning in to whisper in Vincent's ear.

Vincent had snorted, saying, 'I didn't think I'd meet someone like you this far out in London either,' earning a low and indignant 'Hey!' from Owen, trying to keep his voice down.

They had gone to an independent cinema, one of those small indie arthouse places, and that night, they had been playing Wong Kar-wai's _Happy Together_. Vincent had been hesitant initially. They had watched other films together — there was Benny Chan's _A Moment of Romance_ , and then there was Andrew Lau and Alan Mak's _Infernal Affairs_. Vincent had supposed that both were about safe enough topics, but this... It had been something too close to his heart for comfort. Some part of him had wanted to know, really. He had thought that Owen was really cute, and to a certain extent while Owen really does need to work on personal boundaries and being physically close to those around him, but other than that, really? Vincent had felt that he could fall for someone like him, and the thought that Owen might not even return his feelings had been nothing short of terrifying. He had seen how Owen had acted with their mutual friends. It hadn't been as if Vincent had been the only one Owen was physically close to. So well, maybe, whatever it had been just was. Owen might have seen him only as a friend, nothing more.

To Vincent's surprise, however, at the end of the film, Owen was tugging at his jacket sleeve.

'What are you doing?' Vincent had asked, voice gentle.

Owen had fisted his hand in Vincent's jacket, pulling him closer. The credits had been rolling, the lights were still dark, but Vincent could see Owen's eyes shimmering. 'Can I kiss you?' he had asked, voice shaky.

Vincent had looked at Owen, mouth dry. Then he had nodded, licking his lips and leaned in, kissing Owen.

It's a long ride up from Bride's Pool Road to Sha Tau Kok Road and finally up to Robin's Nest. Owen's skills with his motorcycle is impressive, even if such a trip may have been a bit too challenging for a first time pillion rider like Vincent with its steep climb and winding track. And well, to be honest, Vincent's pretty sure that he wouldn't make the journey up without Owen, let alone thought of coming up anyway. The route is scenic, more in the heart of nature than of a cityscape, and Vincent tells Owen that he'd never thought that he would be able to see such a view in Hong Kong.

'It's beautiful up here, isn't it?' Owen says.

They had climbed up the dirt trail, all the way to the summit. From the lookout point, it's almost as if the world is at their feet. In the distance, Vincent can make out the contours of the Shenzhen skyline. Water surrounds them, an endless sea of green, and the air is cool.

'Thank you for bringing me here,' Vincent says, turning to look at Owen. 'You're taking a photo?'

'Of course,' Owen says, tucking his phone back into his pocket. 'I don't wanna miss a thing,' he says in English, and Vincent laughs.

At night, Owen sends Vincent home on his motorcycle.

Hong Kong at night is different when you're on a motorcycle, Vincent thinks. There's the wind and the sights and the sounds that you don't feel when you're on public transportation. The glow of the neon signs look different when you're looking up at it on a motorcycle, arms looped around the waist of the man you love. It's a thought that brings a smile to Vincent's face, and he finds himself pressing even closer to Owen.

'What's up?' Owen asks, when they've stopped at a traffic light. 'If you're scared, you can always hold me tighter. But I can assure you that really, there's nothing to be afraid of when you're riding with me.'

Vincent snorts. 'The light's green now,' he says, squeezing his arms a little tighter around Owen's waist, and Owen grins, speeding off.

Owen walks Vincent up to his flat, and Vincent invites him in.

'It's late,' Owen says. The door is shut behind him, but he's still lingering there, not quite coming in.

Vincent looks at him, mouth dry. He had invited Owen up because... Well. Owen had sent him home and all, and now that they're finally alone here, without everyone else? Right. 'I know,' he answers.

Owen holds Vincent's gaze, tongue darting out to wet his lips. 'I'll be going then,' he says finally. 'Thanks for today. I had a good time with you.'

'No, thank _you_ ,' Vincent says. He has been staring at Owen for a while now, had been ever since Owen had licked his lips, and he knows that Owen is probably aware of just what exactly he has been looking at. Is he moving too quickly? Are they moving too quickly? After all, it _has_ been a while, but at the same time... It feels like it's the right time for this, and he takes a step forward, reaching for Owen's neck.

Apparently, Owen has the same thought, because he reaches out, placing his hands on Vincent's shoulders, and moves in for a kiss.

Owen's lips are soft. He clutches at Vincent's shoulders, then his hands move towards Vincent's neck and back down again, as if he has no idea where to put them.

Vincent's hand is on Owen's neck as they kiss, and he finds himself backing Owen up against the door as they continue. He takes it slow, savouring the sensation of Owen's lips beneath his, how Owen sighs into the kiss, how Owen seems to practically _melt_ into him as they continue. How many nights has Vincent spent thinking of doing this to Owen again, of kissing him breathless and leaving Owen panting and wanting more again? It's been far too long a wait, for Vincent to move too quickly would be for him to ruin it, and that's the last thing he wants, really. His hand moves to cradle Owen's head as he deepens the kiss, and Owen is all but clinging to him now, like a drowning man clings to a lifebuoy, desperate to stay afloat and keep his head above the water. Vincent takes his time, fingers splaying in Owen's hair as he kisses him, tasting him slowly, _oh so slowly_.

When Vincent finally pulls away, Owen is looking up at him, eyes wide. He's blushing so hard that his ears are a brilliant shade of red, and the flush spreads all the way to his neck. He's panting hard, lips parted, and his hands are still on Vincent's shoulders.

'I've missed you,' Vincent says, with a smile playing at his lips.

Owen laughs shakily. 'Is that all?' he asks, raising an eyebrow. He's still trying to catch his breath, and his hair, previously parted neatly, is a mess now no thanks to Vincent.

'Well,' Vincent begins.

There's the sound of something vibrating, and it turns out to be Owen's phone.

'Sorry,' Owen says, fumbling with his pocket to pull out his phone. He glances at the screen, and he winces. Vincent can see who's calling at this hour, and it's Owen's family.

'It's late,' Vincent says. He leans in and this time, he kisses Owen's forehead. 'Good night. Ride safe. Text me when you're home.'

Owen pulls him into an embrace, burying his face in Vincent's chest. 'Okay,' he mumbles.

Vincent is more than aware of how he's dancing around Owen the next few times they meet. Or maybe they're both dancing around one another, and to think that after all this time, when they're now much older and no longer students, this is what they're still doing. They meet for brunch at a cafe that Owen recommends in Causeway Bay, and their legs press up against one another underneath the table as they eat. They go out on Owen's motorcycle, and Vincent knows just how much Owen likes it when he holds on tight, almost as if he's the one who's clinging to him. Ever since their kiss in the doorway of Vincent's flat, they haven't gone any further. So when Owen suggests that well, maybe they should go up to Vincent's flat instead to, maybe, watch something on Netflix and stay in instead? Vincent says yes, of course.

Owen brings a bottle of wine with him. 'Owen delivery,' he says, trying to keep a straight face when Vincent opens the door. 'Mr Wong, here's what you ordered. That will cost you a kiss, dinner, and oh, you can tip more.'

Vincent chuckles, pulling Owen in, closing the door behind him. 'Tip more, you say.' He looks at Owen, taking in Owen's appearance slowly from head to toe. He's wearing his glasses again today, and he's clad in a denim jacket, a white t-shirt and black skinny jeans, and Vincent hums in appreciation, eyes flickering up to meet Owen's gaze. 'What sort of tip would you prefer, Mr Owen Cheung?' he asks, grinning.

Owen's cheeks flush in response, and he fixes Vincent a glare. 'Not cool,' he says, after Vincent has kissed him breathless and gotten rid of his jacket in the process, and Vincent smiles at him, eyes fond.

Owen sings as he helps out in the kitchen. It's an Eason Chan song that is all too familiar to Vincent, and Vincent smiles as he listens to Owen's voice, which is every bit as warm as he remembers it to be.

'You really do sound like Cheung Chi Lam,' someone had remarked after Owen had finished his rendition of the theme song from triumph in the skies. Vincent had agreed to go out for karaoke with Owen and a couple of friends from the Chinese Students' Society, and it had been the time of night when people started singing Eason Chan songs and feeling melancholy.

'I get that sometimes,' Owen had answered, deliberately mimicking him, and everyone had cracked up in laughter. Then he had turned to Vincent, cocking his head to one side. 'Did I do well?' he had asked.

'I think you sound better as yourself,' Vincent had answered. There had been laughter all round again, but Vincent had been looking at Owen only, and Owen's cheeks had flushed as he met Vincent's gaze.

Vincent had already set a pot of soup down to boil before Owen had shown up. It's a simple affair really, and one of the few types of soup that he's found that he's still able to make in various countries.

'Old cucumber soup,' Owen says. During the cooking process, he had been Vincent's taste tester, and now that it's done, he has a bowl to himself.

'What do you think?' Vincent asks. Back when Owen had stayed over in when they had been in London, Vincent had never made anything of this sort for him. Then again, it hadn't been as if Vincent had been particularly proficient in cooking, which had come over time from missing the food he had grown up with. There's also the dumplings and the lamb dishes that he had learnt how to prepare over the years from his mother, but for tonight, this will do. Just soup, rice, and an omelette.

'Homemade soup,' Owen says, smacking his lips. 'Overflowing with love. I can taste it,' he says, nodding sagely, and Vincent smiles.

After dinner, Vincent opens the bottle of red wine that Owen had brought over. He settles down on the sofa, putting on _The God of Gamblers_ on Netflix, and Owen curls up next to Vincent as they watch.

Somehow, in the middle of the movie, Owen ends up sitting on Vincent's lap, burying his face against Vincent's neck.

'You can't see anything from this position, you know,' Vincent chides, but there is no heat in his voice.

'I can see you,' Owen mumbles, lips pressed against Vincent's neck.

'You're drunk,' Vincent says, stroking Owen's hair lightly.

'Am not,' Owen retorts. There's a flush high on his cheeks, and his eyes are starting to close, just a little. 'Ho Shuuuuuun. Wanna touch,' he says, grinding against Vincent. He's clinging to Vincent now, the way a koala would cling to a tree, probably.

Vincent looks at Owen, amused. 'What do you want to touch?' he asks, as kindly as possible.

'You.' Owen says. His lower lip sticks out in a pout, and then he's leaning in to steal a kiss from Vincent, before pulling away quickly. 'Every single part of youuuuuuuuuuu.'

'I'm all yours,' Vincent says, smiling wryly. 'Go ahead.'

'I will,' Owen says, nodding. 'Shirt. Your shirt must go,' he says, wagging a finger at Vincent's t-shirt. He fists his hand in Vincent's shirt, pulling, but he doesn't make any attempt to pull it off Vincent's head. ' _Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiirt_ ,' he repeats, tugging at Vincent's shirt.

Vincent snorts, pulling off his t-shirt on his own, throwing it aside. 'Now what, Mr Cheung?' he asks.

'Wow,' Owen says, hiccupping. 'Woooooow. What have you been doing, Mr Wong Ho Shun?' His hands roam all over Vincent's bare skin, from his neck to his collarbones to his shoulders and arms and chest and even lower, as if he's trying to learn every single part of Vincent's torso with his bare hands.

'I work out,' Vincent answers, leaning in to Owen's touch.

'Very nice,' Owen says, nodding. He kisses Vincent on the lips again, hands resting on Vincent's shoulders. Then he's moving, leaving a trail of kisses down Vincent's jaw, his neck, his collarbone, his chest, his stomach, stopping just above the waistband of his sweatpants. 'Veeeeeeeeery nice.'

'What are you doing?'

'You said you'd tip me, right?' Owen asks, he tugs at the waistband of Vincent's sweatpants, letting go, and Vincent hisses at the snap of the elastic against his skin. 'You'd tip anything I want, right? You won't go back on your word?'

Vincent looks at Owen, unable to resist chuckling. 'And what would you like me to tip you with then?'

Owen smiles, looking beatific. 'This,' he says, voice low and husky. He leans in, laying his head on Vincent's lap, nuzzling against him, and Vincent groans.

Vincent ends up on his bed with Owen lying in between his legs. He's naked by now, whereas Owen is still clad in his t-shirt and jeans. 'Are you sure?' he asks, frowning. He would much rather all this happened when Owen was more sober, but then again, it is as if he'd be able to resist giving Owen whatever he wants.

'Of course,' Owen answers, shifting, getting into a comfortable position. He places a kiss on Vincent's inner thigh, swiping his tongue over the skin before sucking a bruise there, causing Vincent to moan. 'Do you know how long I've wanted this for?'

'How long?' Vincent gasps as Owen kisses further upwards, higher, _much higher_.

' _Years_ ,' Owen whispers, looking up at Vincent. He catches his eye, then leans in to wrap his lips around the tip of Vincent's cock.

Vincent tugs hard at his bedsheets because fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck_. Oh god. Fuck. He's unable to tear his eyes away from Owen, who has one hand around the base of his cock, and the other braced against Vincent's inner thigh to keep his balance.

Owen moves, pulling away from Vincent's cock, before coming back to place a kiss against the tip. He flicks his tongue across the leaking slit, lapping at it slowly, taking his time, then returns to kissing again.

' _Ah Long_ ,' Vincent groans. 'Don't tease.'

'Am not teasing,' Owen murmurs, mouthing at Vincent's cock. 'Just savouring the experience.'

Vincent can barely resist the urge to laugh. 'Really now,' he says, propping himself up using his elbows to look at Owen properly.

'Mm,' Owen answers. He's licking now, dragging his tongue across the underside of Vincent's cock, lower and lower towards the base of his cock, and when he mouths at Vincent's balls, Vincent shouts, hips jerking forward. He loses his balance, falling back against the bed and his pillow. 'Sensitive,' Owen says, looking up at Vincent. He grins, cat-like, but he doesn't return to what he was doing before. Instead, he turns his attention back to the tip of Vincent's cock again, this time using the soft pads of his fingertips to rub against him. 'Do you like this?' Owen asks, continuing with his movements. 'Or would you like this?'

Before Vincent can even reply, Owen takes him into his mouth again. This time, Owen doesn't just stop at the tip — he goes lower and lower still, and Vincent can barely resist the urge to thrust into the wet heat of Owen's mouth. Fuck, at this rate, he's not going to last, especially given how Owen is sucking him off. He takes in as much as he can, before pulling back to rub his tongue against the slit of Vincent's cock, leaking pre-come, and then he's taking his cock in his mouth again, hand stroking whatever he cannot reach.

'Ah Long, fuck, I'm close, I-' Vincent gasps, tugging at Owen's hair.

Owen pulls back at the last moment, hand still stroking Vincent's cock. That's all it takes for Vincent to come, getting it all over Owen's face and glasses.

'You got it all over my face,' Owen says, pouting. He looks like an utter mess, with come on his face and glasses and his cheeks and ears all flushed and his lips red and oh, fuck.

'Come here,' Vincent says. Owen shifts, getting up and that's when Vincent manages to reverse their positions a little, with Vincent leaning against Owen's side. 'Do you...' He can see Owen's erection in his jeans in his peripheral vision, so nope, Owen's not as drunk as he seems to be.

'Ho Shun,' Owen says, looking at Vincent with his eyes wide and that expression that says yes, please, _take me_.

Vincent reaches out, cupping Owen through his jeans. He means to do more, to return the favour, but the pressure from his palm is all it takes for Owen to come with a strangled cry.

In the morning, Vincent wakes up to sunlight bleeding through the blinds, casting lines of light on the duvet. His limbs are entwined with Owen's, and even in his sleep, Owen has his face buried in Vincent's chest. Vincent smiles, looking at Owen. He places a kiss on his forehead, and squints at the alarm clock by his bedside.

 _Seven in the morning_. Alright, back to sleep then.

Vincent remembers how many years ago, when he had been in London with Owen, they had spent the Christmas season going to different Christmas markets in London. There had been mulled wine in frosted mugs, and then there had been how they had gone ice skating together, and they had both been surprised at how each other had moved on the ice. That night after ice skating, they had stumbled back to Vincent's flat at two in the morning, and Vincent had fucked Owen into the mattress until he came all over, biting hard on his fist so that Vincent's roommate wouldn't hear them.

This time, however, they're spending time together in Hong Kong Disneyland. Wearing their matching ears is a given, and belatedly, Vincent realises that their outfits are actually colour coordinated, in black, white and navy blue.

It's a completely different experience to go to Disneyland in the midst of the Christmas season. There are Christmas songs all over, everything is ridiculously festive, from the decoration to the food and even the clothing that the different Disney characters wear. Vincent supposes that well, they're not exactly here for the rides or the attractions, but mostly for the atmosphere. At night, it's as if they have been transported to a different world — the Christmas lights are beautiful, mesmerising, and honestly, so is Owen under the glow of the lights.

The moment the door to Vincent's flat is slammed shut behind Owen is when Owen starts kissing Vincent frantically. He cups Vincent's cheeks, pulling him in for a kiss, like he's intent on devouring Vincent completely. Vincent gasps, surprised, but he reaches for Owen's neck anyway, as always. His fingers are on Owen's neck as he kisses back, and then Owen is pulling away, panting.

'Wanted to do this to you all day,' Owen says, taking a deep breath. Then he's fisting his hand in Vincent's t-shirt, pulling him in again. To Vincent's surprise, Owen doesn't kiss him, but instead he tiptoes a little and bites down on Vincent's lower lip.

'What was that for!?' Vincent exclaims.

'Just wanted to see how it'd be like,' Owen answers. 'Besides, your lip isn't the only place where I intend to bite you...'

'Oh?'

'Would you like to find out?'

'Show me.'

They barely make it to Vincent's bed. Vincent ends up with Owen seated on his lap, and he looks up at Owen, licking his lips. 'Now what?' he asks, hands on Owen's hips.

This time, it's Owen's turn to splay his fingers on Vincent's scalp, threading his fingers through his hair. He kisses Vincent tenderly, lips brushing gently against Vincent's, taking his time.

Vincent's hands are still on Owen's hips, and he lets them wander, to Owen's back, down his spine to the dip in the small of his back to the swell of his ass, and lower so that he's able to feel him fully. Kneading the soft flesh. Owen moans, breaking the kiss. He scrunches up his nose at Vincent, and Vincent grins. Owen kisses Vincent's cheek, his jaw, his neck, then he stops, licking. He laps at his chosen spot, on Vincent's neck, then he bites down. Vincent yelps as Owen continues, leaving marks all over his neck, above his collar bone, on his shoulders.

'I have to work tomorrow, it's going to be difficult to cover up all these marks,' Vincent muses, gasping as Owen sucks yet another bruise into his skin.

'That's the point, isn't it?' Owen says, flashing Vincent a wide grin, showing his dimples clearly.

'Ahh,' Vincent says because fuck, after all these years, after all this time? It's still things like this that cause his heart to skip a beat, or maybe even a few bars. Owen's smile is infectious, and there's light in his eyes and there's warmth and there's a lump in Vincent's throat as his eyes soften and this time, it's Vincent's turn to bury his face where Owen's neck meets his shoulder.

'What's wrong?' Owen asks, threading his hand through Vincent's hair.

'It's nothing,' Vincent says. 'Just that I didn't realise how much I've missed you after all.'

Owen snorts, and Vincent pulls away, looking up at him. Vincent's eyes are shimmering this time and he smiles, and Owen cups his cheek, stroking lightly with his thumb. 'Are you going to show me just how much you've missed me then?' he asks.

Vincent closes his eyes, nodding. 'Of course.'

Owen smiles, kissing Vincent's forehead. 'But first, let me.'

It's certainly a different experience for Vincent to have Owen Cheung sitting on his lap, slowly unbuttoning his shirt, leaving open-mouthed kisses on the skin that he exposes. But what comes most as a surprise is the way Owen is openly staring at Vincent's chest, so much so that Vincent almost feels self-conscious about it.

'Something caught your eye?' Vincent asks, smiling wryly.

'Oh yeah,' Owen answers. He reaches out, placing his palms on Vincent's chest gingerly, feeling him up.

'What are you doing?' Vincent asks. Owen's expressions while he continues touching him are a delight to watch, really. There's concentration, evident from how his brow is furrowed, and there's also fascination and amazement and raw _desire_ in his eyes.

'Touching you,' Owen answers. He's gently pushing, rubbing up against Vincent's chest, against Vincent's nipples with his palms, and he licks his lips as he continues. 'You're unbelievable,' he says, voice a breathy exhale.

Vincent laughs. 'Wait until you see the rest of me,' he says. To be fair, when they were together in London, Vincent would describe his build as tall and reedy, and it had only been in the past few years when he had started becoming a gym rat that he had started to bulk up. By now, judging from Owen's reactions, he's pretty sure that this is exactly something that Owen is into.

Owen laughs nervously, catching Vincent's eye. His cheeks are red now, and so are his ears. 'Can't wait,' he says, pulling off Vincent's shirt. Then he shifts, hand sliding down Vincent's side for balance, and he presses a kiss to Vincent's chest, moving lower.

Vincent moans involuntarily when Owen takes a nipple into his mouth. He laps at it with his tongue before sucking at it, and he plays with the other nipple with his fingers, rubbing at it with his fingertips. 'You really, fuck, you really like my chest, don't you?' he gasps.

'Of course,' Owen replies, not moving from his current position.

So Vincent takes this as a cue to change things up a little. The night isn't going to end here like this, and he reaches to pull off Owen's t-shirt.

Owen gives Vincent a disapproving look, but obliges long enough to discard his shirt. That's all the distraction Vincent needs to be able to start kissing Owen again, and hands roam all over Owen's back as they kiss. He trails his fingers lightly down Owen's spine, feeling Owen arch against him as he moans before coming to rest at the small of Owen's back.

Owen pulls away, panting, glasses slipping down his nose as he looks at Vincent. He needs to catch his breath, but Vincent isn't letting him. Owen moans, long, drawn out and low when Vincent's teeth catches on his earlobe, and he sinks his nails on to Vincent's shoulders, clutching at him. ' _Ho Shun_ ,' he chokes out.

'I've got you,' Vincent murmurs, breath hot in Owen's ear, and Owen groans.

Vincent is pretty sure that if he hadn't reversed his positions with Owen, he would've come in his jeans with Owen grinding up against him. Frankly, that would be embarrassing given how they're both well and ancient now. At least, that's what Vincent thinks. He's looking down at Owen, who's lying beneath him with his shirt discarded and all that's left on him is a pair of boxers.

'Hey,' Owen says, scrunching up his nose in that ridiculously adorable manner of his.

'Hey yourself,' Vincent replies, unable to resist the urge to laugh.

Owen's eyes are shining beneath his glasses. 'So what are you going to do with me, hmm?' he asks, cocking his head upwards, with that cocksure grin on his face.

Vincent leans in, pressing his forehead against Owen's, so close that their glasses knock against each other. 'This,' he murmurs against Owen's lips, and he kisses him.

It's almost ridiculous how slow they're taking things, given how it's painfully obvious that yes, indeed, they're turned on and more than ready to fuck. It's not as if they've never done anything like this before, all those years ago, but there's something about right now, about this moment, that makes Vincent want to make this last. Maybe it's because it's their first night together where, well, they're clearly going to end up doing much more than the other night when they were both half-drunk.

Vincent had left marks of his own on Owen's skin. From his neck to his chest, and most importantly, all over Owen's inner thighs. Some things don't change, and with each touch and caress, Vincent finds that Owen's cock leaks even more against the fabric of his underwear.

' _Ho Shun_.' Owen's voice is both a plea and a warning, _I'm not going to last if you keep doing this to me_. His thighs are spread obscenely wide, like he's offering himself up to Vincent. 'Don't tease. Come on, _fuck me_.'

And really, who is Vincent to deny Owen of what he wants?

Owen squirms beneath Vincent as he fingers him open. He hisses when Vincent pushes a slick finger in, taking deep breaths, reminding himself to relax. Then there's the second finger and oh, _fuck_ —

'Ho Shun!' Owen shouts, pulling hard at the bedsheets.

'Shall I do it again?' Vincent asks. Owen's huffing now, his cheeks all puffed out as he exhales through his mouth and fuck if it isn't the most adorable thing he has ever seen.

'I don't,' Owen begins, letting out a shaky exhale. 'Don't wanna, _fuck_ , don't wanna come like this,' he chokes out, hands still fisted in the bedsheets. ' _Fuck me_. Wanna come from you fucking me with your cock, not, _fuck_ , not your fingers.'

Fuck, oh god, _fuck_.

When Vincent finally presses the tip of his cock to Owen's entrance, slowly entering him, Owen groans, pushing back against him. It's as if he's desperate for more, wants Vincent to fill him up completely and fuck him hard.

Owen is tight and hot, drawing Vincent in, and Vincent's hands grip the back of Owen's thighs as he thrusts into him. He presses down hard, so hard that there will probably be bruises there tomorrow.

' _Ho Shun_ ,' Owen barely manages. His eyes are squeezed shut and he's overwhelmed, clutching at Vincent's shoulders, and Vincent stills, not moving inside him, letting Owen catch his breath.

'You okay?' Vincent asks, eyes searching.

'Yeah,' Owen answers, taking a deep breath. His glasses are askew now, and his fringe is getting in his eyes. He opens his eyes to meet Vincent's gaze, and then he grins, expression full of filthy promise. 'Fuck me harder,' he says, clenching down on Vincent, and Vincent groans.

Watching Owen come undone is a thing of beauty and a joy to behold, Vincent thinks. Owen's breath hitches when Vincent picks up the pace, fucking him harder as he had ordered him to. Vincent reaches in between the both of them, wrapping his hand around Owen's cock as he fucks him, only to be surprised by Owen swatting his hand away telling him not to because it'll be too much for him. Vincent had taken note of just how it had been like for Owen when he had fingered him, and what it had taken for Owen to yank at the bedsheets, and now that he's doing exactly as he did before, but with his cock instead? Vincent can feel just how Owen's heels dig into his back as he wraps his legs around his waist, wanting more, and there's how Vincent's name is a litany on Owen's lips, with Owen repeating it over and over and over, punctuated by harsh gasps.

By now, Owen has his face buried in Vincent's chest, arms wrapped around his neck. When he comes, he bites down on Vincent's skin, and he's whimpering, tears spilling from the corner of his eyes as Vincent continues to thrust into him until he finds his own release too.

Afterwards, Vincent extracts himself from Owen's embrace to dispose of the condom and to get a wet towel from the bathroom.

'Here,' Vincent says. After the previous time in which Owen had spent the night, Vincent had learnt that yes, indeed, clean up was better done before falling asleep and not after. He's all too ready to toss the wet towel to Owen for him to clean up, but when he notices just how Owen is dozing off already, he climbs on to the bed and drags the wet towel over Owen's skin, cleaning him up despite the fatigue setting in already. God, he's truly getting older.

'Ho Shun,' Owen mumbles, catching Vincent's wrist.

'Hmm?' Vincent answers. Right, he's done with cleaning up as best as he can, he's going to return the towel to the bathroom and sleep. Sleep is next in the order of things.

Owen, however, has other plans. Instead, he pulls Vincent down onto the bed, trapping him effectively with his limbs. 'Wong Ho Shun.'

'Yes?' Vincent asks, abandoning his plan to return the towel to the bathroom. He tosses it aside instead, then reaches to switch off the bedside lamp.

'I love you,' Owen says, nuzzling against him. He's holding Vincent close now, wrapping himself around him.

'I know,' Vincent answers, pressing his lips to Owen's forehead. He smiles, closing his eyes, 'I love you too, Cheung Chun Long.'

It's the last day of the year, and instead of work, Vincent's office is hosting an end-of-year party. It had started in the afternoon, and there had been an assortment of food delivered to the office. At some point, the bosses had busted out champagne, and by mid-afternoon Vincent finds himself in the pantry, alone, nursing his own plastic flute of champagne.

'Not mingling around with the rest of the crowd?'

Vincent turns. It's their office cleaning lady, the one who had set him up with her granddaughter once. 'Auntie,' he says, nodding. 'I'm sorry. Things didn't work out with your granddaughter.'

She laughs, shaking her head. 'It's alright. She's found someone now, if you were wondering.'

'That's good to hear,' Vincent says, raising his glass.

She looks at him, eyes assessing, then she smiles. 'You look happy now.' Without waiting for Vincent's response, she continues, 'You always used to stay so late, even after everyone had gone, and you always looked like you were going to cry.'

'Did I?' Vincent asks, ducking his head.

'You can't fool this set of seasoned eyes,' she says. 'Something good happened then?'

The clock on the pantry wall strikes five. Soon Vincent will be leaving the office, heading home, and then he'll spend the rest of the evening cooking dinner with Owen, watching the countdown together, maybe, and well. _Well_. Vincent nods, saying 'Yes.' He smiles. 'I'm finally home.'

**Author's Note:**

> me: i said i didn't want to break the otp but vincent covered 到此為止??!  
> Y: we can break them up AND THEN BRING THEM BACK TOGETHER AGAIN  
> me: omg. OMG.
> 
> and thus this fic was born ;;;;;;; many thanks to Y for all the help, I for the beta and to E for all the encouragement! title is from 到此為止, 重臨舊情境 roughly translates to revisiting the old scenes (where we had memories together). all places in hong kong are real, you can google them if you like.


End file.
